English Overload

Jan 9, 2012 | 4 comments

I really miss speaking Chinese.  As much as I routinely butcher it, I miss it.  

We’ve been visiting friends and family in the States for three weeks now and my senses are still being blasted.  It happens every time we come back.  It’s like a switch gets flipped and all of the sudden I can understand everything.  Every song. Every talk show.  Every tabloid.  Every bathroom stall (seriously, you people have some issues with your bathroom stalls).  It’s English overload, especially considering that for the past several years I have been straining to understand anything.  It’s like I’m a doctor with my stethoscope pressed tightly against the chest of a Chinese taxi driver concentrating intently and focused entirely on understanding what he is saying.  I have to mentally shut out all other noise and hone in . . .

ba bum


ba bum


ba bum

and then the plane lands in America and Rush Limbaugh screams into my stethoscope.  “THE CHI-COMS ARE COMING!” and the news guy yells, “50 PEOPLE EXPLODED TODAY AND SOME MORE ARE GOING TO EXPLODE TOMORROW!” and the radio blares “RED SOLO CUP!” and the tabloids shout, “ALL THE FAMOUS PEOPLE GOT FAT AND DIVORCED AND SOME OF THEM EXPLODED!!” and in all of the insanity you would think a guy could escape to a bathroom stall for some peace and quiet but . . . seriously . . . issues.

I am thoroughly enjoying being home and I am soaking up the experience but my metaphorical eardrums are still ringing . . . metaphorically.  And I’m missing Chinese.

So I went to the Chinese restaurant in the small mid-Western town we are staying in with hopes of striking up a small conversation in Mandarin to stay fresh and impress them with my mad China skills.  Yeah, that didn’t work.  I always forget a key component that never fails to be present in this scenario.  This is it . . . I feel like a big doof.

In my mind before I arrive it goes something like this . . . I walk in and in perfect Chinese say, “Good evening, I am pleased to meet you, may I see your menu please?” and they say “Whaaa, your Chinese is so good, please be our friend and accept a free large order of General Tsao’s Chicken as a token of our appreciation for your awesomeness and your ability to connect with us by speaking in our native tongue.” 

But then I arrive and I get all nervous because the place is packed and I realized that there is essentially no need to speak Chinese because the girl taking my order sounds like she was born and raised in Iowa.  So the scenario in my head changes to . . . I say, “ni hao” and they say “seriously dude?  we were born and raised in Iowa . . . don’t you have anything better to do on a Saturday night than to come in here and make fun of the people in the Chinese restaurant?  Racist doof.” And then all of the small town American customers get out of their seats and the big hairy one says. “you don’t look like you’re from around here boy but we don’t take kindly outsiders pokin’ fun at our local Chinese restaurant proprietors.  Maybe you just ought to get your General Tsao’s Chicken and mosey on out them doors.”

So I ordered my food.  In English.  

But before I left I worked up the nerve to at least strike up a conversation.  In English.

The best I could come up with was, “so, where you guys from?” 

That’s it.  That was my big opener to spark a deep cultural exchange.  The girl with the Iowanese accent looked at the cook who had come from the back and wordlessly exchanged a glance that spoke volumes.  “um” she paused and bit her lip just a little . . .  “China.”  She spoke with this tender, compassionate tone.  The kind you use when you’re speaking to a small child or a complete moron.  It was like deep in her heart she really wanted to say, “we’re from Zimbabwe!  Can’t you tell from our straight dark hair our Asian eyes and the enormous glowing sign outside that says CHINA KING?” 

From there I tried to explain that we actually live in China and  . . .  it was just awkward.

I miss speaking Chinese.

You May Not Actually Be Cool: Please Read This Before You Get a Chinese Tattoo

Oct 19, 2011 | 2 comments

This poor guy thought he was getting a very cool “OUTLAW”
tattoo but instead came away with “HIDING CRIMINAL”
which basically carries the meaning “RAT FINK”.
Not as cool.

I have never been cool.  I’ve spent nearly 4 decades just behind the trend curve and the closest I have come was that mullet just four years after mullets were hot (and they were hot).  I used to blame my mother who said no Nike’s in the fourth grade, no rat tail in the fifth grade, no parachute pants in the sixth grade, no red, pleather, Michael Jackson zipper coat in the seventh grade and no earring . . . ever.  She just didn’t see the value of cool.

Now I am thankful.  If it had not been for the absolute inability to be cool that she planted deep in the core of my very being I’m guessing I would have a tattoo by now.  That thought cross-referenced with the trend over the past decade and my connection to China would lead me to think that my tattoo would be (like all of the cool kids these days) a Chinese character . . . or the Fonz . . . or the Fonz with a tattoo of a Chinese character.  How cool would that be?

Here is the problem . . . Translation is a vicious beast.

Speaking Chinese is hard (go here and here and here to learn more about that) but translating is a whole new level of pain.  If speaking Chinese is a bear then translating it is a fire breathing T-Rex with laser beam eyes and a big tattoo that says “Bears taste good” (in Chinese).  The cardinal sin of translation is that the translator makes the mistake of thinking language is words.  Language is actually layer after layer of grammar and structure and rules and exceptions to rules and culture and history and emotion and . . . that list goes on for a while.  So when you ask, “what’s the Chinese word for ‘I love you baby cakes?” you might end up with something that actually means “Your child’s flap jacks are loving and generous to me.”

The “filth room” is the Janitors closet at the
hospital down the street from our home.

Expats in China get a lot of giggles out of poorly translated Chinese (go here for “The Onion Explodes the Mutton and Other Fine Chinese Dishes”) but the translation beast eats Western food too.  There are multiple thousands of very cool looking Chinese tattoos out there that would cause a Chinese crowd to laugh out loud (not with them . . . at them).

At least they’re not alone.


Here’s an excerpt from the NY Times on the subject:


“Marquis Daniels, of the Dallas Mavericks, thought he was getting his initials in Chinese characters but what his arm actually says is “healthy woman roof,” . . .  Shawn Marion of the Phoenix Suns was under the impression that his nickname, “the Matrix,” was tattooed on his leg, but the inscription translates as something like “demon bird moth balls.” . . . Britney Spears . . . reportedly got a tattoo she thought said “mysterious” but actually meant “strange.”


I also heard a rumor that one of the Spice Girls tried for a “Girl Power” tattoo and ended up with “Electric Woman”.  No idea if that’s true . . . but it’s funny. 


Just for fun I’ve taken up translating.  These are the love songs that I would have tattooed on my body by now . . . if I was cool.  I translated them into Chinese using iciba.com (a Chinese online translator) and then back into English using Google Translate


1. I’m everything I am, because you loved me (first dance at my wedding)  = “Because you believe me because you love me that I”
2. You are the wind beneath my wings = “You breeze in my arms under”
3. I got you babe = “The same car with the boys” (?)
4. Nothing compares to you = “You . . . unparalleled” (actually cooler)
5. You light up my life = “You light up my life” (about the same cool only it probably really means “you set me on fire”)


So pretty please . . . before you tarnish your body for life with a Chinese typo . . . send me your text and I’ll have it proofread by real live Chinese people.  If I can’t be cool, at least I can help you be.

Check out these sites for more translations gone horribly wrong:
Hanzismatter.blogspot.com
Engrish.com

The Day Grandma Got Us Kicked Out of Mexico

Oct 17, 2011 | 3 comments

My dear Grandma (who is presently enjoying heaven) was once described by my mother (her own daughter) as being (and I quote) “about as cheerful as diarrhea“.

She rarely spoke (and she was rarely not speaking) without mentioning someone who had recently passed on or someone who was about to pass on or how she felt like her time to pass on was coming up quickly.  She had a certain offensive obliviousness to her that allowed her to completely insult an entire room full (possibly a city full) of people and genuinely have absolutely no shred of a concept that she might have alluded to something even remotely unpleasant.  When we told her we were adopting a child from China her first response was . . .

“Couldn’t you get one from America?”

 

Then I think she said something awkwardly invasive about the working order of our reproductive systems.  It was weird.  She redeemed herself, however, after we adopted Rachel by telling her Korean doctor (who proudly displayed a picture of her own daughter on the office wall), “You ain’t got nuthin’ on me . . . I got me a little Chinese girl too.  She’s my granddaughter!”
 

GET THE BOOK

Plus other resources for free

Sign up for updates and I'll give you three free ebooks including "The Day Grandma Got us Kicked Out of Mexico"

 

I never once sensed an ounce of sincere hatred in her heart for any group or race of people (except for maybe Southern Baptists) but by today’s standards she would register on the polar opposite end of the scale from politically correct . . . or polite . . . or acceptable in public.
IRONICALLY . . .I think it might have been my grandmother who planted the first seeds of cross-cultural curiosity in me.  Grandpa was a WWII vet and then a General Baptist Pastor (not Particular . . . not Reformed and most certainly not Southern Baptist . . . bite your tongue heretic) for more than 50 years.  He and Grandma made several trips to the Holy Land (the General Baptist one) and when they did they took the chance to see some other parts of the world a bit.  When I was five they were the only people in my life who had seen any parts of the world a bit which made them my superheros.  I had a stuffed camel from Egypt, some wooden shoes from Holland and a “My Grandma and Grandpa went to Jerusalem and all I got was this stinking t-shirt” t-shirt.  I was king for three straight weeks of show and tell.

 

When I was 12, it was Grandma who led me on my first authentic cross-cultural adventure.  My cousins and I went on vacation with my grandparents all the way to California.  They crammed us, along with the luggage, into the back of a 19 seventy something, Chevy Station Wagon where we laughed and fought and blew southern winds for 12 hours a day (Grandma’s euphemism . . . not mine . . . “Did you boys blow another southern wind? Alva stop this car, somebody needs to go sit on the toilet”).    We stopped to visit distant cousins once removed in Yuma, Arizona which just happened to be right across the border from . . . a whole other country.  I had never been so excited in my life.

 

I can’t remember if I begged or not but I so wanted to go to Mexico.  In my mind it would make me the coolest kid in Illinois.  “Where’d you go for summer vacation?  oh really?  Iowa?  That sounds nice . . . me?   Oh no place really . . . just MEXICO!!  The whole other COUNTRY!!  where they eat TACOS!! and they speak MEXICAN!!”

 

I didn’t say I was savvy. . . or in touch with reality.  Just curious.

 

So we went . . . and it was amazing.  It was at least 150 degrees (Fahrenheit, Celsius . . . doesn’t matter at that point). The streets were dusty because it hadn’t rained in over a century.  There were burros in the middle of the road and men with massive hats leaned against the shade trees taking naps or playing enormous guitars (in the interest of integrity I should mention that my memory is actually a bit fuzzy and some of this may be coming from Saturday morning cartoons) . . . but it was amazing.

 

I do remember very well one shop owner shouting, “COME IN! COME IN! WE HAVE AIR CONDITIONING!”  That was the man who would soon hate my grandma.  He welcomed us in to look at his hand sewn, Mexican purses . . . from Mexico.  Grandma found one she liked and asked if he would accept U.S. dollars.  “Of course! Of course, anything for you lady!”  And then it began . . .

 

“How much?”
“For you lady . . . $14”
smiling because she knew in her heart what she was about to do“no no . . . I’ll give you 7”
smiling because he had no idea the force he was reckoning with,“Oh lady . . . for you, 13.”
“Nah . . . 7”
“Oh come on lady . . . I come down you come up . . . I’ll go 12”
squinting confidently with a smirk“mmm . . . how about 7?”
squinting in disgust  “you give me 10 lady”
nothing but a grin 

 

He continued “9! . . . 9 dollars, that’s my lowest price!! You give me 9 dollars, I give you the purse.  Come on!  You like the purse!  It’s a good purse! 9 dollars . . . . (long pause) . . . . EIGHT DOLLARS!! You give me EIGHT DOLLARS!  COME ON LADY!!”  

 

I swear this happened.  My Grandma said “5”.
“FIVE DOLLARS?!! YOU ALREADY SAID 7!! YOU CAN’T SAY 5!! 
Still grinning.  “Yeah, I think 5 now.”
pulling out handfuls of his own hair. “LADY I GIVE YOU YOUR PRICE, SEVEN DOLLARS!!!”  
“hmm . . . nah . . . five.”
“OK!! OK!! OKAAAY!! FIVE DOLLARS!! YOU WIN YOU WIN, YOU *something I think was a Mexican cuss word.*
And I swear this happened too . . . My Grandma said, “nah.”

 

And she walked away.  Seriously, she walked away.  She successfully bargained a man nearly 30% below her own starting price . . . and she walked away.  I looked back and saw the man turn cherry red starting at his feet and rising to his head.  His eyes bugged out, steam came out of his ears and he blew his sombrero off like a train whistle (that may have been from the cartoons too but I really don’t think it was).
We shopped for a few hours and then finally came back around to the same little store.

 

“COME IN! COME IN! WE HAVE AIR CONDITIONING!” He locked eyes with my Grandma.  “Oh you  . . . GET OUT!!!!!!”

 

I miss you Grandma.  Thanks for planting (in a way that only you could) a seed in me that has led me all over the planet and given me two of the most beautiful kids in the world . . . Oh yeah  . . . we adopted again . . . remember that African-American doctor you had?  . . . well he ain’t got nuthin’ on you.”

You Want Birds With That? Humbling Moments for a Language Faker

Oct 10, 2011 | 9 comments

I got blasted with a dose of my own indignance this week.  

Chinese is tonal.  If you haven’t tried to learn it then that means nothing to you.  It’s pointless trivia, like “celery has negative calories” or “bats always turn left when they exit a cave”.  All true (verified via the internet) but knowing it adds zero value to your life (maybe negative . . . like celery . . . and calories).  If you have tried to learn Chinese however, then the overwhelming significance of these three words just made you vomit a little bit in your mouth.

A Quick Chinese Lesson for the Vomitless:
If you say “ma” it means “mother” (stink – Chinese is easy! what are you whining about?).  However, if you say “ma” it means “horse” and if you say “ma” it means “anesthesia” and if you say “ma” it means “hemp” and if you say “ma” it means “tingly and numb” and if you say “ma” it means “sesame” and if you say “Ma” you may be speaking to a guy named Mr. Ma . . . or you may be trying to speak to Mr. Ma but you’re actually calling him “Mr. Sesame” and if you’re introducing him to your mother you may actually be saying “Hey Mr. Sesame this is my horse” or “this is my anesthesia” or “this is my hemp” for which you could be arrested and possibly executed (see here for more on that) all because you used the wrong tone.

It’s the most felt challenge of living as a foreigner in China.  Not so much the threat of execution but the daily, blood boiling, teeth grinding irritation of knowing that you are saying the right word and getting nothing but a blank stare.  I have seen some of the sweetest, tenderest, most loving souls I know transformed into screaming, blubbering freaks because the taxi driver just can’t understand their well rehearsed Chinese.

“SESAME STREET! YOU MORON!  SESAME STREET! SESAME STREET! SESAME STREET! CAN YOU PLEASE TELL ME HOW TO GET TO SESAME STREET?!!”


And the driver stares blankly because all he hears is, “Mother Street! Horse Street! Anesthesia Street! Can you please tell me how to get to Tingly and Numb Street?!”


Hence the vomit.


The result is a heavy dependence on context.  Maybe my tones are off but if I can get the surrounding words to make sense then generally the Chinese listener will graciously figure it out.  “OOHH – This is not really his horse, in fact she is not a horse at all . . . he probably means his mother.” However the Ma of all frustrations is when the context is crystal clear, the phonetics are spot on, the tones are just slightly off and there is still a total failure to communicate.  “I SO know that I am SO close so why can’t you understand me?!”

Checking into a hotel in Beijing last week I got the tables turned on me.  I was holding up the line as the front desk girl and I flipped through my family’s passport books searching for the right visas and stamps.  Her English was rough but I was catching most of it.  My Chinese was rougher but she was gracious.  Finally we got the visa issues settled and she looked me straight in the eye and said . . .

“How about birds?”

You know that moment when you have no clue what is going on but your mind races to make something up?  I got stuck there. I was certain I misheard her so I questioned, “I’m sorry?”

“Birds”

In about three seconds this was my thought process, *are there birds in the room? I don’t think I want birds in my room.  I’ve seen birds for sale on the street, do they sell birds here? Is there some type of giveaway that I don’t know about?  This is a holiday weekend, maybe they give birds to customers for Chinese National Day.  That would be really strange considering this is an airport hotel and most of the customers will be flying home soon.  Do they expect us to take birds home on the airplane with us? You can’t do that.  I know China’s basic view on animal rights is different than where I come from but really?  Birds?  In my suitcase?  They are so going to stop me at security.  I wonder what color they are.*

“I’m sorry . . . what?”

She repeated, “Birds.”

Blank stare.

“Do you want one or two birds in your room.”

I was so thoroughly confused.  *My two year old son will never go to sleep if we have any birds in our room.  Why would you put birds in my room?!*

I could sense her frustration but still smiling she said, “Chuang.”

“OOHH  Beds!”

Dear China:  I’m sorry for snapping at your taxi drivers and thinking bad thoughts about you because you don’t understand my tones.  You win.

For more about the pain and joy of learning Chinese go here:
Confessions of a Language Faker
The Diarrhea Clinic and Why I Think it’s Funny

Lost and Found in Translation: Baby on Road

Sep 24, 2011 | 1 comment

Go ahead . . . date yourself.  Do you remember when “Baby on Board” signs first started popping up on rear windows?  Remember that one summer when they were on every other car and everyone drove just a wee bit safer.  It was like a traffic trump card that gave the bearer total immunity.  The official Rules of the Road clearly state that if someone cuts you off you are legally entitled (and in some regions obligated) to (and I quote):

a. shake your fist violently
b. scream obscenities mindlessly
c. flip the bird

Not only does the law support your irritated actions but every, single, other driver on the road will cheer you on because you are clearly justified in your rage and they feel your pain.  You are the hero of the highway.

However, stick that little yellow sign in the back window and the tide turns instantly.  You are no longer shaking your fist at the moron who cut you off but you are in fact, threatening violence . . . to a BABY!  What kind of a sicko are you?  Watch your mouth . . . there’s an infant in that car and don’t even think about the bird . . . put the bird away . . . destroy the bird!  But whatever you do, DO NOT flip the bird . . . at an infant.

Brilliant.  Hence the fad, short lived as it was.  U.S. sales went through the roof in 1985, about a year after the signs were introduced.  In 1986 they plummeted because the only thing Americans love more than a traffic trump card is a corny joke.  “Mother in Law in Trunk” signs killed the trend.

The irony is that the original sentiment has continued to thrive globally in places where vehicle population is increasing and sarcastic humor remains . . . well . . . not funny.  The double irony happens when the original sentiment is mistranslated.  “Baby on Road” stickers haven’t yet hit 1985 B.O.B. status but I’ve seen an increasing number lately here in China.  Granted, to the foreigner (like me) the translation sounds either horribly sadistic or really funny but for most Chinese people I’m sure the thought is clear and very sweet.

I tried to explain to a Chinese friend how horrible it sounds that the baby is on the road while the mama is in the car but my humor was lost in translation.

My Second and Last Blog About Diarrhea: The Movie

Aug 3, 2011 | 6 comments

Yeah so the very least of my writing aspirations is to become known as “the diarrhea blogger”

“Hey do you know Jerry Jones?”

     “The owner of the Dallas Cowboys? Yeah sure.”

“No, not the real Jerry Jones, the other one.”

     “There’s another one?”

“Yeah the guy who writes the blog about culture . . . “

     blank stare


“He talks about China (nothing) . . .  and faking Chinese  (zip) . . . and adoption  (nope) . . . and diarrhea”

     “OHHHH Yeah the diarrhea blogger!  He owns the Dallas Cowboys?!  I did not know that.”

Such fame is not even on my radar  . . . but this is too rich to pass up.  Following my last post (The Diarrhea Clinic and Why I Think it’s Funny) this video was shared with me further proving my point that while diarrhea may not be funny to every culture it is indeed funny to our culture no matter what culture speaks (or sings) of it.

Watch it and try not to laugh but don’t stop watching before the song.  You won’t regret it.

And I promise – no more diarrhea anytime soon.  At least on the blog.